It is Bill's funeral
and I cannot wait to get your clothes off.
Your eyes flicker at me
from behind black mesh, your black hat
at a rakish angle, a black carnation
perched on the brim
like an oil fire
caught in a tornado.
Bill's casket lies
to the right of the vicar,
a perfect ingot.
Bill will be buried in it.
In light of his injuries,
cremation seemed
inappropriate.
The service is easing towards
its inevitable end,
like all of us, I suppose,
when we begin to detect
the faintest tinny warble,
like a ringtone going off
in someone's pocket.
Ears prick, hackles rise
at the disrespect.
Who the fuck forgets
to switch their phone off
for a funeral?
I think, casting
dirty looks about the church.
Then, a pounding on the lid.
From the inside.
The vicar looks startled, and,
to his eternal credit, tries
to keep going, then the coffin pops
like a vault
and it's Bill, standing,
peeling off fake burns like crepes,
dropping trou and mooning
as a 30-second wav of Monster Mash
loops over
and over
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